Chapter 26 #4
“I am at Miss Gentleman’s service, of course,” said Leofric, bowing his head towards Prunella. “Now that the debt is paid, and the staff has acknowledged her its mistress.”
“I am obliged to you,” said Prunella, “but I do not want your service. Tjandra and Youko are enough for me—and without intending any offence, I could not bear to replace Nidget with its devourer. Why do not you return to Fairyland? I expect you have not seen your friends there in ever so long.”
“It does not seem to have occurred to you that there is a reason for that,” said Leofric grimly. “However, if that is your wish, I shall abide by it. I am at your disposal—summon me as you wish—so long as our agreement subsists.”
“I shall be silent as the grave,” Prunella assured him. “And so will these other gentlemen be, if they know what is good for them.”
“Am I correct, then, in understanding that you have acknowledged your subservience to Miss Gentleman?” said Damerell.
Leofric was poised at the open window, but he paused to say, “Oh yes, if that is how you wish to put it,” before he leapt out into the air.
“Gentlemen,” said Damerell to the room, “I think that addresses the last of your concerns. May I be the first to congratulate our nation’s first Sorceress Royal?”
Prunella curtsied and managed to smile, though she hardly felt like it. She was already learning the price of power. For that moment at least it was small comfort that she knew herself capable of paying it.
· · ·
Ido not know that I have ever been more shocked,” said Sir Stephen.
“Yes,” said Zacharias. “Prunella has a gift for occasioning shock.”
They were walking in the Society gardens. The Presiding Committee had disbanded in confusion, and Damerell had escorted Prunella home.
“It is because she lacks any scruples whatsoever,” added Zacharias. “She will make a good Sorceress Royal—far better than I ever was.”
“And is Leofric truly gone?” said Sir Stephen.
There was a trace of wistfulness in his voice.
“He had his faults, I know. He was determined he should be acquitted according to his merits. But who is to say he was not entitled to his reward? He rendered faithful service for many years, and to me, at least, he was a true friend.”
“He held you in esteem, I know,” said Zacharias gently. “Do not think that I resent him. Magical creatures live by a different code. He did me a favour in accepting the substitution I offered—though I cannot say I regret him.”
“The pain is quite gone?”
“It ceased the moment he ate Nidget,” said Zacharias. “If nothing else, Leofric is a dragon of his word.”
“So he always was,” said Sir Stephen.
They passed under rustling canopies of pale green leaves, their measured tread bringing them along the shrubbery which screened off the outside world.
“Well, there is no need to explain anything to you, Zacharias,” said Sir Stephen.
“You always knew me and Maria as well as we did ourselves. Never was there such an observant child. Your nurse said she never knew such a feeling little creature. Why, you will not recollect this, but when you were quite a little boy, no more than three or four years old, you used to take my hand when I visited the nursery, and ask if I were very tired, in such a solicitous manner as, combined with your imperfect pronunciation, was quite absurdly moving.”
Zacharias did, in fact, remember this. He had been instructed to ask the question by his nurse, who considered that, as a charity case, he should make special efforts to win his guardian’s affections.
“It stands to reason they will find it harder to love a little black creature like you, than if you had dear Lady Wythe’s blue eyes and golden hair,” Martha had said.
She had meant to be kind. Martha had been attached to him notwithstanding his blackness, and had wept to leave him when she went away to be married. It had all happened long ago, in any case, and there was little purpose in disillusioning Sir Stephen now.
“May I hope, sir, that you are finally acting in accordance with my wish that you should move on to your final home?” said Zacharias. “You know it was never any part of my intention to bind you to this world.”
“Then you should not have sacrificed yourself for the good of my immortal soul,” said Sir Stephen. “You are not the only one capable of feeling beholden to his friends.”
“If we are to enter into the question of which of us owes the greatest debt to the other—” Zacharias began.
“I beg we will not,” said Sir Stephen mildly.
“I chose to take you on, you know. Since the decision to become a parent is invariably self-interested, it is my belief that a parent’s obligation is to the child, and the child’s obligation is to itself.
However, let us avoid such old ground, or we will fall to quarrelling again.
I have always said I would consider myself at liberty only once you were relieved of the burden you assumed upon my death.
Now you are free, it is clear that my duty no longer calls me to tarry.
I have known for a while that I am awaited elsewhere, and have only delayed because you had the better claim upon me. ”
Zacharias could not speak. Sir Stephen’s continued presence had not always been convenient, but he had, Zacharias now realised, come to rely upon the certainty that Sir Stephen would appear when he was needed.
It was curious to think that he had been present at Sir Stephen’s death, but was the only person for whom his death had not been real—until now.
“Whatever they have in the worlds beyond this one, I will miss these gardens,” said Sir Stephen, looking around.
“So many memories are associated with them. Still, memory is not enough to linger on. Maria may eventually succumb to the attentions of that impudent fellow Barbary, and then where would I be? Better to pass on—to leave you mortals to the business of living, and concern myself with the business of dying.”
Rather shocked, Zacharias said: “I cannot conceive that Lady Wythe would dream of entertaining inappropriate attentions so soon after your death.”
“Oh, they are not inappropriate,” said Sir Stephen.
“Daniel Barbary would never do anything inappropriate, damn him. He has vouchsafed only the most delicate civilities—the kindest consideration. He would make an excellent husband if Maria were inclined to risk marriage again. It would doubtless be for the best if she did: she was not made for a solitary existence, and though I know you would do what you could, you could not provide anything like the companionship of a husband. It would be greatly to Maria’s advantage to contract another union—and so I had better move on.
Doubtless these matters will seem of little consequence in the next life. ”
“You have been very good to me, Sir Stephen,” said Zacharias unsteadily. Now that the loss approached, it seemed to him that it came too soon. There still remained far too much to say—far too much left undone, to permit of their parting.
“What, now, will we speak of obligation again?” said Sir Stephen, smiling.
“I have proscribed all such talk, remember. I have heard enough of duty from you, Zacharias. Now you are liberated from your office—which I know you entered for duty’s sake—I hope you will concern yourself much more with what you desire.
With what would give you joy. You have given me such joy, my dear boy.
That I shall remember, wherever death may take me. ”
At the gate Sir Stephen paused and laid his hand upon Zacharias’s shoulder.
A light pressure—a last look, full of affection—and he departed.
He walked along the street, his image fading as he went, until even by straining his tear-blurred sight to the utmost, Zacharias could not descry any trace of his oldest friend.